going to be ill.

_Mrs. R._ (_laughing a little hysterically_). No--no, JACK, it isn't
poor Snowball this time! Wait, and you will hear something.

[_The "Voice that Breathed o'er Eden" is suddenly rendered by an organ
and full choir: the remarks of two choristers (who are having a
little difference over a hymn-book), and the subdued sniffs of MRS.
MANDOLINE, being distinctly audible between the verses._

_Mrs. R._ (_breaking down_). Oh, JACK, isn't it beautiful? Wasn't it
_sweet_ of Uncle JOHN to give it to us!

_Jack_ (_who, privately, would have infinitely preferred a small
cheque_). Yes--he's a good old buffer at bottom.

_Mrs. R._ He's a perfect old _love_! Tell me, JACK, you're not _sorry_
you married me, _are_ you?

_Jack._ What a thing to ask a fellow Of _course_ I'm not!

_Mrs. R._ (_softly_). Do you know, JACK, I'm sometimes sorry I married
_you_, though.

_Jack_ (_uneasily_). Come, I _say_, you know--what on earth for?

_Mrs. R._ Because I should like to marry you all over again!... Ah,
I _knew_ I should frighten you! (_The final "Amen" of the Choir dies
away, amid the coughing, rustling, and nasal trumpeting of last year's
Congregation._) There are some more cylinders, JACK--shall we put them